Hippity Hoppity Easter’s on its Way

It’s officially a week away from my all-time favorite holiday- Easter. Sometimes people question me as to why it is my favorite, and it’s an easy response. Little signs of life are coming back everywhere after the dreary and doldrum filled winter. Warm sunshine is finally peeking through the spotty clouds as days finally start ending after six o’clock. Sure, allergies may be more abundant and sneezing more prevalent, but how gorgeous are the tulips and the dogwoods in bloom? I love everything about Easter- the old hymns at church, the fragrant lilies, the egg hunts, and the delicious brunch or lunch spread filled with deviled eggs and traditional favorites on a beautifully set table with fine china and crystal glasses.

When I think about my childhood during Easter, the first thing that comes to mind is the search for the perfect Easter dress. It was always a thing in my family. We would look around our local Mississippi malls and boutiques but usually used the dress search as an excuse to drive the three hours north to Memphis for the weekend where we’d shop, visit the ducks waddling through the Peabody Hotel lobby, and eat barbeque at the famous Rendezvous. Little did I know, I was paying my older brother back for having to sit through all of his spring baseball games, while he had to sit outside dressing room doors, waiting for me to find the perfect floral or pastel dress all while pretending to care. He knew he couldn’t say much. He also knew I was very particular in my fashion choices at a young age so it usually made for an extremely long and draining shopping day.

I also think about my family’s traditions at my grandmother’s home in Taylorsville, Mississippi. We’d go to the brick church around the corner from my granny’s that is about as big as a minute. It’s small interior had red carpet, creaky wooden pews, and a single bathroom in the back. I’d almost always be the lucky one to end up sitting in front of cousin Amanda who supposedly had the voice of an angel, although she sounded like Scuttle from The Little Mermaid to me. For those who aren’t familiar with Scuttle, he is a cartoon seagull who does not have the voice of an angel but sings his heart out like he does. I can still hear Amanda belting “Because He Lives” in my right ear as I fidgeted with my bunched up panty hose and white Mary Janes, all while looking around wondering why no one in my family would stop her.

After church we would convene for lunch at my grandmother’s home to have an Easter feast fit for a king. There would always be ham, her famous fluffy, homemade yeast rolls, deviled eggs, potato salad, cream corn, and green beans or asparagus. Dessert was Angel Food cake topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream or a heavenly coconut cake made from scratch. After coffee and cake, an epic egg hunt would commence in the daffodil filled back pasture, followed by some cane pole fishing in the pond if the weather was right. Of course, we were always instructed to change out of our Sunday’s best. No one wanted to clean cricket or worm guts off their children’s white lace or fresh seer sucker.

I absolutely love the simple traditions we had at home, too. My mother, otherwise known as the Easter Bunny, always made sure we received a special egg in our baskets. These eggs were beautifully hand painted and either made of porcelain or wood. As we became adults, she gave us our collection of eggs to keep, and I always have mine placed in a glass bowl, out for display as decoration during Easter. I’ve even passed down that tradition to my own children, and they look forward to finding their special egg from the bunny every year. It still surprises me just how much they love it.

A couple of things I’ve tried with my own children haven’t worked, however. I’ll never forget when my son was two-and-a-half years old, I got him all dolled up in a feminine-ish, Southern romper of some sort and toted him up to Cheekwood Botanical Gardens for the annual Easter Egg Hunt. Since my husband was deep in the woods looking to kill a turkey, I was going solo, but I was bound and determined to make the moment with my child memorable. And memorable it was. Since everyone else in Nashville, Tennessee, seemed to have the same bright idea, I had to park a good mile-and-a-half (maybe two) away from the hunt. And since my genius self forgot the stroller, I had to carry a very sleep toddler up the hilly terrain. I mumbled profanities under my breath as I saw the non-hunting husbands helping their wives by carrying a child or two or the loaded down diaper bag on a free arm. Once I finally made it to our magical destination, I looked like I had just come out of a sauna or an intense workout, so I knew right then and there I would not be ready for a photo op with my child.

I made it to the start of the hunt with five minutes to spare. I frantically situated my son between the other eager toddlers with their frilly bonnets and smocked John-Johns and waited for the whistle to blow. As the countdown for the hunt began, I fiddled with the camera on my phone, getting ready to snap away when he found the perfect egg. To my dismay, my toddler son became more interested in the random young couple making out in the bushes and bolted over to see what the situation was all about when I wasn’t looking. The whistle blew, the other kids went for the eggs, and I ran the opposite direction to find my son who was apparently learning a life lesson I wasn’t interested in seeing. No eggs were found that day, but a random make out session was.

By the time I pulled my son away from the watch party, it was time for his nap. And anyone who knows toddlers knows that meant I had officially entered the danger zone. I grabbed my son and his empty basket away while he screamed and cried for his life. I received looks of sympathy from other mothers and looks of concern from workers who thought I may be a kidnapper. For the mile-and-a-half to two mile trek back to my car, my precious child kicked, screamed, cried, and yelled the entire way. Again, I mumbled profanities under my breath as empathetic non-hunting husbands asked if I needed help. “I’m fine. Thank you. Nap time,” were the only appropriate yet short phrases I could mumble back. Of course my toddler quietly slept like a cherub the entire way home as I cried and planned for the bottle of wine I was going to open at five and bitterly texted my husband that I hoped he didn’t hear a turkey on his hunt…not even a faint gobble.

I also had big dreams of my son petting soft bunnies and handing out lilies to his teachers during the Easter season. However, I very quickly learned that he was not equipped with the immune system to do so. In Nashville, one of the cutest traditions is going to Phillips Toy Mart in Belle Meade to see the twenty or so bunnies they have in a large pen full of hay. Kids can pet them and spend as much time admiring the little balls of fluff as they’d like. The first time I took my son, he was around three. He eagerly petted each bunny and even bent down to kiss a spotted gray one with floppy ears. Ten minutes later, we were at the local drug store stocking up on Benadryl. I’m still not sure if it was the hay or the bunny, but my now eight-year-old tells everyone he is allergic to rabbits, and his little sister is tragically disappointed she will never have a pet bunny named Whiskers.

Lilies have always been one of my favorite flowers. Anytime they are in a room, I immediately notice. Their fragrance reminds me of simple times at church in the spring or my college sorority house foyer during when all the young men would send their girlfriends bouquets to show their affection (or to get out of the doghouse). When my son was four, I had the bright idea to buy a lovely bouquet of stargazer lilies for his teacher. I placed them in a vase and had him carry them inside to present them the teacher while saying, “Happy Easter!” At some point during the presentation the pollen coated anther touched his eye, and an hour later, I was back at the daycare with Benadryl and a stressful excuse to leave work. The poor child’s right eye was swollen shut for a day, and that was the end of lilies in my home for a few years.

Needless to say, many of my well thought out Easter plans have not gone the way I expected. Even so, it is still my absolute favorite holiday. I can actually have lilies in my home now (even though I constantly remind my children not to touch them). My collection of hand painted eggs still sits in the bowl on my kitchen table each year. And to my surprise, Easter is even one of my son’s favorite holidays- after the botched egg hunt, the bunny/hay allergy, and the anther in the eye. May we all be so hopeful as a child coming back for more! And isn’t hope what the Easter season is all about? As we prepare for next weekend, I sincerely hope your Easter is filled with sunshine, delicious food, happy moments, fragrant flowers, beautiful eggs, lots of laughter, and absolutely no Benadryl.

1985 in my Easter best with my brother. I’m sure he loved the dress (and the shopping for it).

Hippity Hoppity Easter’s on its Way

Pray Specifically

For the Love of the Game